Two days later, Jon was slogging his way through the surf, to the dark sandy shores of Dragonstone.
He'd brought six guards with him, those he trusted most, and Davos, of course, leaving his ship anchored just off the coast. Looking about, he struggled to see evidence of a single soul about, wondering that perhaps they had been meant to disembark elsewhere, when he heard his name, a shout carried on the wind, a familiar Dornish lilt.
"Prince Jon!"
Jon found the source easily enough, several figures scurrying down the long, winding stone stairs that appeared to lead to the Keep. At the head, came a man in black and red armor, Targaryen colors, his famous sword belted around his waist.
Though his trousers were uncomfortably soaked to the knees, Jon began to jog, boots sinking slightly in the wet sand 'til he met the man on firmer ground.
"Uncle," Jon said warmly, Arthur Dayne grinning widely as he clasped the Prince's forearms in his own. Then Arthur shook his head, and pulled Jon in for a back-thumping embrace. He held Jon close for several minutes, and it was not until the Northern man made to pull back that Arthur Dayne straightened. "You are a sight for sore eyes, indeed."
He couldn't recall, right away, the last time he'd seen his mother's brother. More than ten years had passed, he supposed, when he thought on it for a moment. But, as tended to happen when he did chance to see the last of his Dayne blood, he found himself wondering how much of his mother existed in the man's face and features. Had she looked as he did? It was hard to know. She had died birthing him, and his own father rarely spoke of her.
As a boy, Jon had not understood this reticence. He had struggled endlessly to find scraps of information about the woman who had given life to him, the woman that, it was said, the King in the North had loved beyond all reason, beyond all measure.
Now, he understood. Some things hurt too much; Some names seemed to tear at the throat and slice the lips, in just the barest utterance.
"Ah, just look at you." He could hear the sentimental sadness in Arthur's voice, as the man stepped back a pace, his hand steady on Jon's shoulder as he examined the Prince from head to toe, clad in his traditional Northern black leathers, the Stark direwolf stitched into the chest. "When last I saw you, you were a boy, still. And now? A man grown stands before me."
Jon ducked his head, lips twisting in a half smile before he met his uncle's warm stare again. "Time has been kind to you, as well, Uncle. I daresay you look just the same as you did when last we met." It was true. Perhaps there were some flecks of silver in Arthur Dayne's short-cropped hair, but he still looked every inch the formidable knight he'd admired as a boy.
There came a loud outcry from behind them, at the water line, and Jon turned to see a second boat being pulled to shore, this one loaded down with a heavy wooden crate, the occupant of that crate clearly displeased at his confinement.
"Another who has grown," Arthur chuffed, giving Jon's shoulder a nudge. "Go and see to your wolf, lad. The King shall be down in just a moment to greet you." With a final clap of his hand, Arthur released the Prince, and Jon picked his way back down the sandy shore to spring Ghost from his unwanted imprisonment.
Though he still felt extraordinarily anxious about all this, uncertain whether this was the right choice, for solely personal reasons, it was a comfort to have Ghost at his side. He watched, amused, as the great wolf shook himself, the animal seeming to glare at the men clustered around the boat. Letting out a loud huff, he loped towards Jon, giving him a small, happy whine and a lick to the cheek.
And then, he was off.
He raced up and down the brown sandy shoreline, causing the men to scatter as he circled and splashed, surely full of pent-up energy after their journey.
Jon heard a laugh, not belonging to his Uncle, and spun to find that Arthur Dayne was no longer alone.
There, before a small phalanx of guards clad in deep black and crimson, was the Dragon King.
The young Prince had tried, as best he could, to prepare himself for this meeting. It was known, of course, that the Targaryens were of Valyrian blood, that they possessed the silver hair and amethyst eyes common to those of their doomed land. And Jon himself knew, intimately, that there were still those lands that had been part of the old Freehold that still possessed those characteristics.
Still, he was taken aback, the air robbed from his chest, for a split second, at the sight of the man's shining silver hair. He wore it long, much longer than Jon's own curls, though like Jon's his hair was bound back from his face.
"Prince Jon," came a calm, near-melodic voice, as King Rhaegar gave a slight dip of his chin. "I welcome you to Dragonstone." There was something cautious that lurked on the man's face, and Jon noticed the sidelong look Arthur threw at the King he served, as though he were worried for the Valyrian. Rhaegar approached, cautiously, his eyes locked on Jon's face for so long that the Prince grew slightly uncomfortable at the man's wordless examination.
Finally, he spoke. "It is nice," Rhaegar said solemnly, a slight tremble in his voice, "to look upon a Northern face again." When his lips twisted downward, Jon felt a shimmer of commiseration course through him.
Long ago, this man had been his Uncle, as well, not by blood, but by marriage. When Prince Rhaegar had wed the Princess Lyanna Stark, it had been cause for much celebration and rejoicing, from the icy North to these very rocky shores. By all accounts, it had been a love match, as well, which had only made things so much more heartwrenching when Lyanna and the Dragon Prince's small daughter, Rhaenys, had taken ill and died. That this blow had fallen just after the deaths of Rhaegar's own mother and father had largely explained the reclusive stance now common for House Targaryen. Dragonstone had shut itself off from the world, just as the North had.
And Jon understood well enough how it wrenched at the gut, to be presented of these reminders, no matter how small, at what had been lost. His eyes were beginning to ache at the sight of the man's hair, because every time he blinked he could see her, there, sweet Dany standing outside that smuggler's shack, a hand stretched out to him, beckoning him.
He shook himself, and clasped the man's forearm. "I am glad to be here, Your Grace."
Ghost made himself known, just then, shouldering his way between the two men to sniff at the Dragon King with curious huffs of breath, standing as tall as a horse, oblivious to the gasps and cries of the King's men.
"Peace, lads," Rhaegar called out, amused. He raised a hand to still their swords, chuckling as Ghost finally backed off to stand next to Jon, his inspection complete. "My word," he breathed out, taking in the snow-white fur and piercing red eyes of Jon's direwolf, his own purple eyes full of an almost childlike wonder. "A magnificent beast, and an unexpected surprise. We were not sure if you would bring him."
Grinning, Jon reached up to scratch at his companion's neck. "I hope you've got pigs, or he shall be sore unhappy."
Rhaegar let out loud bark of laughter and clapped his hands together, his men straightening to attention. "Pigs we have, Prince Jon, pigs and more." He gave directions to his guards to see to Jon's trunks, which Davos was still unloading, and finally gave a true smile. "Let us get you and your party settled in. We shall dine together tonight, a modest feast I fear, but a feast all the same."
Jon nodded, waiting until Arthur shared a few whispered words with his liege before he motioned for Jon to follow. "C'mon then, nephew, let's get you sorted."
Jon had barely finished his bath, beginning to dress in his large, spacious, stone-walled chambers, when a knock sounded at the door.
Hastily, he laced his breeches, pulling on a tunic as he walked to the door and threw it open. It was Davos, sporting an odd expression as he glanced at Jon deferentially. "Your Grace," he said, "Ser Arthur and the King are here to speak with you."
The pair appeared, one dark, one light, each wearing slightly grim expressions, which did not lesson when Jon waved them in silently. They seemed troubled, and it only fed the melancholy mood he'd found himself in all day. Ghost glanced up from his place before the fire, clearly not picking up on the tension in the air as he yawned and settled back down.
"Jon," Arthur started, his hands fidgeting together as he stood by the carved window, the sunset painting shafts of golden light upon the floor, "there is a matter of some delicacy that we must discuss with you, before we dine this night."
Jon stared at each of the men in turn, then crossed to the low table against the wall, pouring out a measure of wine for himself before waving a goblet in their direction. Rhaegar nodded but Arthur declined, and Jon poured one more goblet full for the King. Carrying both, he sat at a chair before the fire, handing one to Rhaegar as the other man sat across from him.
"Well, go on then," Jon finally said brusquely, breaking the silence. "I'm well accustomed to bad news."
Rhaegar shook his head, eyes glinting in the firelight as he gave Jon a considering stare. "I'm not certain it is bad news, Jon, just a matter you should be aware of before you are presented to my court." He took a heavy swallow of wine, letting out a short breath before he finally seemed to find the will to speak again. "You should know that my sister has led no pampered existence. She is no maid who wishes to sit and sew and chatter with noble ladies." The King sounded so despairing that Jon could not help the wave of pity that washed over him, for this woman he was to wed. "She has been sold, and starved, harmed beyond all reason, and yet," the man said, sounding as though he might well cry, "she remains. She has lived an entire life, in the time since she was stolen from this Keep, and that life has produced certain," he paused, considering his words," consequences."
Jon frowned, taking a sip of his own wine. "What sort of consequences? Beyond the dragons, of course. It is rumored that she hatched dragons from stone eggs. Is that true?" His own curiosity, on this topic, had grown by leaps and bounds, the more whisperings he heard. It was almost enough to eclipse his lingering hesitation regarding his betrothal to her.
It was not Rhaegar who answered, this time, but Arthur. The Dragon King stared into the flames, as his uncle came closer, to stand over Rhaegar's shoulder. "It's true, Jon. She most certainly did. She, alone, brought the dragons back." With a sigh, the man gripped the wooden back of the chair. "But she is more than just the Mother of Dragons you have no doubt heard tell of. She has a child."
The air rushed out of his lungs, and his grip on his goblet tightened until his knuckles grew white. "A child?" He looked to Rhaegar who still stared into the hearth. "Why did no one inform me of this before?"
That drew the King's attention, finally, and from the sudden ire in his eyes, Jon realized it had drawn more than that. "Would it have changed your choice, Prince Jonnel?" The man narrowed his eyes, his sudden formality delivered in a distant, cold voice. "I had hoped that you, of all the suitors who might have been matched with my sister, would be sympathetic to the plight of an innocent child who finds themselves absent a parent."
It was a direct blow, Jon know, and it was deserved. It might have been true that his father's second wife, Catelyn Tully, did not mistreat him in front of others. But he had certainly borne the brunt of her disdain and distaste, had grown used to her anger at his very existence. No, she did not speak coarsely to him before his father, but at any and every opportunity, she had treated him as though he did not exist. She had borne his father two daughters, and he loved both sisters dearly, but when Queen Catelyn had fallen victim to the same sweeping illness that had ravaged the North and claimed Jon's own wife of just a year, Jon had not wept for her.
"Aye," he finally replied, nodding to himself. "I suppose I do." He scrubbed his free hand down his face, realizing things had grown far more complicated, but his overall decision had not changed. His kingdom needed this alliance with the dragons, and they needed the Northern warriors at their back when the time came to confront the Lannisters. "What's her name?"
"Naerys," Rheagar said quietly, a small smile flitting across his face. "She is a good child, Jon Stark. Innocent, sweet. My sister was sold to the child's father, a Dothraki Khal, some years ago." He saw a tic in the muscles at Rhaegar's jaw, felt his own anger stir at the disclosure. Arranged marriages were commonplace enough, but to sell a woman was a great and terrible crime. Slavery had no place in the North and was given no quarter, an executable offense. "A terrible affair, one which you will no doubt hear more of, in your time here, but the girl bears no blame in it."
Jon drew back, aghast. "No, of course she wouldn't." This little girl's only crime would seem to be what Jon's was: existing. He ran his tongue across his teeth, swirling the wine in his goblet, thinking hard. "Will she be dining with us this night?"
Rhaegar gave a dip of his head. "She will."
Jon took a steadying breath. "And does she know I am here? Does she know *why* I am here?"
Arthur gave a low chuckle. "Oh, she most certainly does. I daresay she is looking forward to meeting you." His uncle's eyes dipped to the mound of white fur before the fire. "But especially your wolf. She spied him from the window and has been beside herself ever since."
Jon looked down at Ghost for a beat, knowing the beast was awake and feigning sleep. There was little about Ghost he did not know, nor Ghost of him. "Up you go, you lazy cur," he ordered, and those red wolf eyes were locked onto his dolefully for seconds before the creature hauled himself up with a groan. Jon stood, as well, dipping his head at both men in turn. "We shouldn't keep such an audience waiting."
The little princess was watching him.
He had been seated at the head table, with a decent display of fanfare and formalities, Rhaegar to his left, and the small girl Naerys on his right. Jon had tried his best to maintain polite niceties, but he was clearly better at hiding his curiosity than the girl.
He chewed a bit of boar, then turned his head slightly, finding startling purple eyes on him again.
She seemed a meek little thing, not saying a word when they had been introduced, averting her eyes when he had insisted she must call him Jon, that even his father did not call him 'Jonnel'. Naerys had the traditional Targaryen features, but they were blended with the soft innocence that childhood brought; Where Rhaegar was all angles and lines, little Naerys had a little heart-shaped face. Where Rhaegar's hair hung stick straight, like spun silver, Naerys had soft silver curls that escaped her braids here and there, giving her an air of unruliness that reminded him of Arya.
And, having had two younger sisters, he at least had an inkling of how to speak to the girl now boring holes into the side of his head with intense interest.
She wasn't eating, he noticed, and so he risked overstepping to lean over, just a tad, and whisper, "Do you not care for your dinner?"
Naerys said nothing, blinking twice at the question before wrinkling her nose and shaking her head slightly. Jon suppressed a laugh, his eyes falling back on his own plate. The food was quite good, though he absolutely detested beets, and there lay a sliced pile of them in a mound on his plate. He pushed them around absently, for a moment, before quickly turning his head to find her staring at him once more.
"Caught you," he whispered, before she could look away, and her eyes widened with a hint of embarrassment. That was no good. Jon adopted as serious an expression as he could muster. "Can I tell you a secret?"
The little girl seemed to think it over, tapping a finger against her chin as though she were in deep thought. Finally, she nodded.
"I *hate* beets." He made a gagging noise, very quietly, sticking out his tongue as though disgusted, and that finally earned a tiny laugh. Naerys clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, as though she thought she might be in trouble.
Slowly, she turned back in her seat, the brown-skinned young woman next to her giving her a gentle scolding, no doubt related to her lack of appetite. Jon looked askance to see her take a bite of bread, chewing slowly, her eyes darting around the room, searching for something.
Finally, when they landed on her quarry, she pointed a small finger to just inside the doubled doors, where Ghost sat at attention, as tall on his haunches as most of the King's guards.
Now came a true smile, and the excitement Rhaegar had spoken of was clear in the girl's eyes, as she bounced in her chair and twisted to look at Jon again.
"Ver." She said the word quietly, with assurance, as she pointed at Jon's wolf, raising her brows expectantly as he sat, mystified.
It wasn't a word he was familiar with, and he shook his head, confused. "Sorry?"
"Ver," she said, more emphatically, and now the woman beside her caught on.
"The princess tells you what your wolf is called, in Dothraki tongue." In a smooth, slightly accented voice, the amber-eyed woman explained, though she seemed hesitant to speak to Jon at all. "I am Missandei," she finally said, reluctantly. "I care for the Princess and tutor her in languages. Her mother wishes that she know as many as I do."
Jon sipped at his wine, returning the woman's stare with growing interest. "And how many is that?"
"Nineteen." The answer was delivered smoothly enough, as though it were commonplace, but Jon couldn't fathom trying to keep so many tongues straight in his head.
Surprised, Jon glanced back to Naerys, who nodded in agreement. "Ver," she repeated, a third time, her grin so wide now he could see she was missing one of her top teeth. She must be in her sixth year, Jon thought, or close to it, for that had been when both Sansa and Arya had begun to lose their milk teeth, and he returned her smile.
"His name is Ghost," Jon said, speaking to both of them now. "Do you know what he is?"
Flyaway curls brushed against the sleeves of her proper black gown as she leaned her head on her hand, tilting it at him as though that was the silliest question she'd ever heard. "Ver."
He understood the word now, at least, but she wasn't quite right. He smiled. "He's not just any wolf, little Princess. Ghost is a Direwolf, and those are only found in the North."
The woman beside Naerys leaned forward again, a little less reserved than they had been before. "Forgive Her Grace, Prince Jon. Today she speaks only Dothraki, you see. Tomorrow we shall speak the Common Tongue, so that she may practice, and then the day after, Valyrian perhaps?" Little Naerys seemed excited by the prospect, then let loose with a string of words so rough and fleeting to his ears that he could scarce make them out.
"What did she say?" He looked to Missandei, who smiled slightly.
"She asks if the Prince of the North speaks many languages as well?"
Jon made a show of grimacing, air whistling out between his teeth as he glanced down at the girl, who seemed to be awaiting his answer rather impatiently. "I'm sorry to say, I only speak the Common Tongue," he said, making sure his voice was overly full of regret. "And if you wish to know the truth, I'm probably not very good at that one."
That earned another little giggle from the Princess, and even a friendly twist of the lips from Missandei, who then leaned in when Naerys pulled on her shoulder, her eyes growing wide as the girl whispered to her. Clearing her throat delicately, she met Jon's eyes. "She would like to know if she may meet your wolf?" He almost missed the shake of the woman's head, probably to indicate the idea was not proper in this moment, but when he saw that burning purple stare again, the pleading inside, he didn't think he could refuse.
He remembered, barely, that first day, when he had been but a small boy of four, standing to greet the woman his father had brought to their castle, the woman who would be his new mother. She had sniffed in the air, her mouth twisting as though she'd eaten a lemon, the moment she saw him. She had hated him from the start, had been determined to, because he reminded his father too much of the woman the King had lost.
Jon was, perhaps, too brooding, and too melancholy, and in general a miserable heartbroken fucker at least half the time, according to Davos, but he was not wholly without feeling. He understood what might be stealing the little girl's appetite, knew well because he had been where she was. He wondered, for a beat, whether the girl was as worried over him as he had been over the new Lady Stark.
He determined that he would do better than was done to him.
Jon winked at the girl, and stood. "Ghost," he called, his voice echoing around the hall, the din of voices and clattering of dishes falling away at the sound. "To me!"
Serving girls leapt out of the wolf's path, his wide head swinging from side to side as the beast glared at any who got in his way, padding softly up the stairs of the dais they were seated on. He could feel the worried stares at his back, no doubt the Dragon King and his Uncle wondering if his mind had been lost to him.
But the Little Princess stood as well, clapping her hands in excitement, and Jon gently took her shoulders and maneuvered her to stand before him, as Ghost crept closer.
He was near enough that he heard her swift intake of breath, but to the girl's credit she did not tremble or shrink away. Ghost, when confronting a person full on, could certainly be intimidating, with his razor-sharp fangs and blood red eyes, never mind that he stood near as tall as his master.
She was a brave little thing, this Naerys, and she squared her shoulders, her chin raised, as Ghost lowered his head to stare into her eyes.
It seemed to Jon, as he quickly looked around, that every breath in the room was held, every stare trained solely on the introduction between girl and wolf, but he thought he must be the only one who was certain there was nothing to fear. Ghost wouldn't harm the girl. He wasn't friendly, as a rule, save to anyone but Jon and occasionally Sansa and Arya, but he wasn't a demon either.
For all that the gathering seemed surprised that the wolf did not leap forward and attack, there was an even greater surprise still to come, for then Ghost blinked, slowly, giving a low, pitiful little whine, then laid himself down on all fours, so that his muzzle was even with the girl's face.
And then, the rotten cur began to lick the girl's cheek and forehead, even up the tip of her nose, his great pink tongue no doubt dousing little Naerys in a *most* improper coating of slobber.
Missandei stood, then, likely ready to pull the girl back. But Naerys laughed, a tinkling, merry sound, happy and light, and so boisterous that it earned answering chuckles from the adults at the table. Jon was grinning widely by the time the little Princess turned around, glad to see the glimmer of hesitancy, of fear, was gone from her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered, waving him to bend near so she could speak with her hand cupped around her lips. "I would have told you in Dothraki, but they do not say 'Thank you', Prince Jon."
Naerys gave him no chance to answer, to assure her that he wouldn't make known her lapse in language, because the minute she had finished speaking she turned back to Ghost and threw her small arms as well as she could around the wolf's neck.
Ghost allowed it, tipping his great head against the girl's silver curls, and Jon was endlessly glad for it. He didn't understand it, not fully, for Ghost rarely even allowed Jon's own kin such close contact, but he thought it might be that his wolf understood what he did: the little girl was likely afraid, and worried, about the stranger who'd come to wed her mother.
And perhaps, like Jon, he wished to assure the girl that neither he nor Jon meant her any harm.
Jon took his seat, watching, along with the rest of the table's occupants, as small hands came to pat and pet around Ghost's ears and cheeks, until finally the girl had her fill, and sat herself down as well. Still, though, she just studied the contents of her place, wee white teeth biting at her little rosebud lips as though she couldn't quite decide whether she hungered or not.
Jon braced an arm on the table and waited for her eyes to find him again. "He's very big, isn't he?" He ticked his head towards Ghost, and Naerys nodded adamantly. "Tonight, we are eating his very favorite thing, you know. That's how he got so big and strong. He loves boar. I think he could eat five whole boars if I let him." He nodded solemnly when the girl's eyes grew impossibly large, and she looked over her shoulder to where Ghost's large body now lay behind their seats.
Then she turned, looked at her plate, and took her fork in hand. In a flash, she was tearing into her food, and Jon fought a laugh as he began to eat again as well. A hand on his forearm halted him, and he glanced to his left to find Rhaegar regarding him with an odd look on his face. Swiftly, though, there came a gentle smile, and an almost imperceptible dip of the Dragon King's head, and he looked between his niece and the man who would wed his sister. "You are a good lad, Jon Stark," he said quietly, then turned back to the ongoing discussion further down the table, something about troop placements and ballistae that he could only catch snatches of. There would be time enough to involve himself in such talk another night. Instead, he kept an eye on the little girl beside him, and the wolf at his back, marveling at the tiny sliver of peace he felt, glad he was still capable of a measure of it, no matter how small.
Dinner had been a good distraction, but once Jon was alone, in his chambers, he found his earlier worries and misgivings had resurfaced. Left to his own devices, as he readied himself for bed, he found himself grieving once more.
Nights were always the hardest.
She always came to him, then, in his sleep. When he dreamt, it was always of Lys, and of Dany, of the love that had consumed him whole.
The worst nights were the ones where he was too late, always too late. If he slumbered to long, he was there again, sixteen and weeping like a babe, cursing that he had not reached her in time, had not tossed aside his own cares to come to her earlier, to steal her away as he had so dearly wished to. Perhaps, then, the flames would not have devoured her, leaving behind only ash and dust and one small, silver ring.
He undressed, down to his smallclothes, too weary from the events of the day to bother with much else, and climbed abed. He wrapped his hand around her ring, and closed his eyes, and let the dreams come.
Dany of Lys was a strange girl.
That much he had concluded within the fortnight he'd spent in this strange land. She looked every bit the sort of highborn, well-bred lady his father might march before him, in search of a suitable wife. There was something regal, about the way she carried herself, down to her very stride, the set of her head.
And yet...
There was something wild in her, something fearless and free that he wished existed in himself. It was as if every day might be her last, and she meant to milk every wonderful moment from it, luring him into adventurous explorations of the surrounding area, daring him to find her as she hid, scrambling up frighteningly high trees to shake fruit loose when he could not follow, as his arm slowly healed.
One day, she followed him back to Davos's shack and ordered him to sit, her eyes searching his wounds then taking up his dagger and carefully, painstakingly removing each horsehair stitch.
He would scar, she said sagely, but he was healing.
Three days after she'd performed that task, she arrived in the early morning hours with a thick rope looped over her shoulder, and a teasing grin.
"Let's have some sport," she said, and he had no choice but to nod in agreement.
Dany tied that same rope to a thick limb that hung over the freshwater pool. The pair spent the whole day whooping and swinging themselves into the waters below, laughing and splashing at each other before they stopped to dry themselves on the shore and glut on the piles of fruit they'd rummaged for.
Jon realized, as he watched her eat, trying his very hardest not to notice the way her wet shift clung to her skin, hiding even less than before as the water had turned the material almost translucent, that he was infatuated with her.
How could he not be?
Everything she was, was everything he wanted, and he knew it wasn't wise, but he didn't know how to stop himself from feeling these things.
He wasn't sure he wanted to.
She noticed him watching her, regarding him silently before sticking her tongue out at him. "What are you staring at, smuggler?"
Jon shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry."
Dany stayed quiet, staring out at the water, before she responded. "May I ask you a personal question?"
Jon knew well enough that she was going to ask anyway, repeatedly, wearing him down until he agreed, so with a sigh, he nodded. "If you like."
"Have you ever kissed a girl before?"
He felt his cheeks flush, his eyes snapping to hers in alarm. "I beg your pardon? Why would you want to know that?" Jon began to worry that she might suspect just how much he wanted to kiss her, a need that had taken root in him after only a few days in her presence, that had now grown into a roaring beast inside him that demanded that he just do it, already.
Dany frowned. "I was just curious. I've never kissed anyone before, so I wondered if you knew what it was like." She pursed her lips at him as he simply sat, mute, processing what she had said. "So, have you?"
Lying would be unbecoming, he thought, especially with the way she stared at him so expectantly, genuinely curious. "Barely," he muttered, fiddling with the fabric of his wet trousers. He'd shed his tunic, but kept the breeches, determined to retain some semblance of modesty.
"Did you love her? This girl you kissed? Was it very romantic?" He glanced up to see her in a pose she assumed often, knees drawn to her chest, her arms hugged around them, her wet skirts puddled around her. He wondered at the forlorn note in her voice, as she asked her barrage of questions.
He had only ever kissed Ygritte, in truth, and even then it had been barely more than a peck. "No," he finally breathed out, and drew his own knees up, his hands clenching and unclenching in the grass below and resting his chin on a kneecap. "I didn't love her, and it wasn't very romantic."
"Oh." She almost looked as if she pitied him, lovely blue-green eyes glinting with a particular sort of sadness. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she took a deep breath, and when her eyes snapped open again the melancholy was gone, replaced with resolve. "You could kiss me, if you wanted."
Jon drew in a sharp breath. Of course, he wanted to kiss her. He thought about it constantly. But he was gripped with a sudden bout of doubt. What if he was terrible at it? He wasn't really sure if a person could be bad at kissing, but luck had certainly not been on his side, as of late. "I don't know if you want me to do that," he finally said, dryly. "The last girl I kissed was the one who did this to me." He straightened, pointing at his shoulder, a mirthless laugh escaping as her brow creased. "Could be I'm awful at kissing."
Slowly, Dany shook her head, wet strands of silver swirling over her shoulders. "I bet that's not true." She nibbled gently at her lower lip, and Jon was seized by the need to draw that plump flesh between his own, to learn what she tasted like. His heart began to pound so loudly in his ears he worried that she could hear it, as she rose to her knees and came closer, until there were only inches separating the bare skin of his arm and the thin, sheer green material of her summer dress. He looked at her warily when she laid a hand on his shoulder. "I fear that when I leave here, I will not be given the choice, to kiss someone because I wish to." The eyes he found near impossible to resist flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes. "I would like for you to kiss me. I just want to know what it's like, because I choose to. Not because someone chooses for me."
"You really want me to kiss you?" He was amazed he was able to huff the words out, every muscle twitching, his pulse racing as he started at her lips. "I warned you already, I might be dreadful at it."
Dany smiled, though he could see she was fairly nervous, her shoulders tensely set though she tried to pretend to be unaffected. She shrugged, tipping her head to the side. "I don't really have anyone to compare you to, so how would I know one way or the other?"
Jon took a deep, slow exhale, breath streaming out of his nostrils as he pressed his lips together. The only reason NOT to kiss her, it seemed to him, was the way his stomach made a stupid flip whenever he saw her, the idea that perhaps it was not just infatuation at all. The only reason not to kiss her, as she asked him to, was that it would be harder to leave her.
He lifted his hand from the ground, slowly, wiping it against the damp fabric of his trousers before he cupped her cheek. "You're sure?"
Dany huffed out an exasperated breath and narrowed her eyes teasingly. "Honestly, Jon, if you ask me again if I really want you to kiss me, I'll change my mind. Is it such a terrible undertaking?"
Jon shook his head, licking at his dry lips. "No."
Satisfied with his compliance, she closed her eyes, her face moving towards his, lips calling him, begging him to press his against them.
And so, he did.
He tried to be gentle. Really, desperately tried. He managed it for a few tender moments, letting his lips slide against hers almost delicately, barely brushing and teasing against the silken skin.
But then, just as he reveled in the gentle touch, she moaned, ever so lightly, and he was done for.
Jon's hand tightened against her cheek, and he changed the angle, this time kissing her with more pressure, the tip of his tongue just flicking out to tease against her bottom lip. She moaned again, more loudly, and he became bolder, encouraged, licking against the seam of her lips, his own groan reverberating between them when she opened her mouth to him.
She tasted like fruit, sweet with a hint of tartness, and something else. There was another taste, now dancing along his taste buds, that had to be just her, and he shifted around to his own knees, taking her face in both hands, deepening the kiss further to chase that secret flavor.
It was like sunshine on his face, making his whole body feel warm, his blood rushing to parts of him that were even less inclined to behave themselves, as he glanced his tongue against hers. For a moment, he felt as though he'd been set ablaze, desire surging through him at a level he'd never experienced before. He knew he had to stop, before things grew beyond his control.
Jon drew back, breathless, watching as she panted against his mouth, her eyelids lazily fluttering open.
For an agonizing moment, she just stared into his eyes, then traced her hand along his arm, laying her fingers against his where he still grasped her face.
"I think you're rather good at kissing."
Dany leaned back, and it took all the willpower he had not to pull her into his arms again, to taste her mouth, to feel the press of her barely covered chest against his.
She threaded her fingers through his, in the space between them, and gave him a shy smile, one he returned, his breath steadying. "That's a relief," he jested, and she squeezed his fingers.
Dany held his hand for the rest of the day, and even after she left, traipsing off down the beach as the sun began to dip and the sky began to darken, he couldn't wipe the silly smile from his face.
The following morning, after he pulled on his favorite worn gambeson, and tied back his hair, he was greeted by the smiling face of Ser Davos at the door, who announced that he had a visitor.
He had two, actually, one of the distinctly small variety, and he smiled warmly when he crossed to the threshold to find Naerys and Missandei standing in the hallway. The tutor returned his smile, and eventually Naerys did as well, though she shifted her eyes to her feet for a few moments before meeting his gaze.
"Good morning," Jon addressed them both, nodding to each. "How do you fare today, my ladies?"
Missandei's amber eyes were focused on him, but the darting purple gaze of the princess was everywhere, searching each corner of the room, only resting when she spied the enormous lump of fur by the dying embers in his hearth. And as if the wolf sensed the attention, his head swung around, ruby eyes locking with the girl's.
"Very well, Your Grace. The Princess wished to see your wolf, if it is not too much trouble. I fear she insisted on such visit before attending to her lessons." There was a note of aggravation in the woman's voice, though the fondness there did not wane. Jon nodded thoughtfully, staring between girl and wolf for several moments.
Finally, he gestured the pair inside, grinning at Missandei when the small child squealed with enthusiasm and ran to Ghost's side, not even hesitating before flinging herself down on the stone floor beside the beast and threading her small hands through his fur.
Ghost obliged her sweet affection with several licks to the girl's cheek, though Jon suspected there was a hint of resignation to the heavy sigh the wolf let out as his eyes bounced to Jon's, over the girl's silver capped head.
As the girl hugged the wolf tightly, her eyes closed in something that looked like bliss, Jon spared another glance at Missandei. "Has she been giving you some trouble this morning?"
The woman's eyes narrowed, lips twitching at the corners as she considered the scene before her. "She is a good girl, very obedient, very sweet. However, I fear she is quite taken with your wolf, Prince Jon, and I did not believe she would be able to focus on her studies until she saw him again. She has something of an," here the woman paused, deliberately, "affinity for wild creatures, you might say."
Jon thought on this for several beats, realizing that must be certainly true. If this girl's mother had truly hatched dragons, somewhere across the Narrow Sea, then he could understand her utter lack of fear when faced with his direwolf. Ghost would seem little more threatening that a common hunting hound, in that framework.
And, as he watched Ghost lay back and allow the girl to scratch at his wide chest, it seemed to him the wolf was rather taken with the little girl as well.
He had an idea.
He walked across to the odd pair, and both girl and wolf turned to look at him as he knelt beside the Princess, the scarlet silk skirts of her rather simple dress no doubt getting soiled in every moment spent on the floor.
"Do you know, Princess, I fear Ghost is feeling rather frightened, being in such a new place, full of strangers. I am meant to be in the training yards this morning with Ser Arthur, so I wonder," he drawled, as though she might refuse, "do you think he might accompany you to your lessons today?"
Little Naerys looked so excited at the prospect, her eyes widening and a happy gasp escaping, that it was difficult to hold back a chuckle as she nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes," she said, "he may come with me." The wee girl was almost vibrating with glee at the notion, her hand stretching up to reach as far up Ghost's shoulder as she could, though at his full height the animal towered over the Princess.
Jon looked to Ghost, who was watching him intently. "You are to behave yourself, lad. Understood?"
Ghost chuffed, as though Jon was aggravating him with the implication that he *wouldn't* behave, while Naerys giggled at the sight of the wolf's tongue lolling out.
When he turned back to Missandei, she looked somewhat unsure as to the sudden arrangement, but Jon did he best to reassure her. "He'll be fine. He knows well how to comport himself when indoors. And, if he becomes too stir-crazy, give him a honeycake or two. Puts him right to sleep." Though she still seemed unsure, the woman nodded, and together they watched as Naerys led Jon's direwolf to the door of his chambers.
Suddenly, as though she remembered herself, the little girl turned, her braided silver plaits glinting in the morning light that filtered in, and gave Jon a deep curtsy. "I shall take good care of him." She was so grave, for such a small thing, every word heavy with promise.
For the life of him, Jon was flummoxed as to why this seemed so important. All he knew for certain was that he had walked in the little girl's shoes, and he would not, *could not* allow her to suffer as he had, though they were practically strangers, still.
He would marry her mother, in the coming months, and he could think of no worse outcome than this small child's misery at the prospect.
Somewhere, in the corners of his mind that had dwelt on other, more hurtful things, it was a welcome distraction, trying to make sure that even if the girl's mother was less than enthused about their match, at least Naerys might not suffer for the marriage.
Jon nodded and gave a stiff, formal bow, as though they were addressing each other at court. "You have my thanks, Princess." He looked to Missandei, who was watching them silently, her expression stoic and unreadable, though he thought he spied a glimmer of amusement in her golden eyes. "I'll be in the training yards with my Uncle, should the scoundrel try to cause trouble."
Ghost turned, at the door, and Jon could've sworn the beast glared at him. He laughed, and gave a wave of his hand. "Off with you, then," he said, watching as the trio left, still smiling as he reached for his sword belt. Perhaps, despite the wispy remnants of his dream that still clung to him, today would be a good day.
By the moon's end, Jon found himself settling into a pattern on Dragonstone, and there was something decidedly comforting about it.
In the mornings, Arthur would come, and he and Davos would dine with his Uncle, sharing stories of the years between them that had been missed.
Sometimes, Arthur would speak of Ashara, Jon's mother, and Jon was content to sit quietly and listen, soaking in every bit of new knowledge like a sponge. It was a balm to his soul, really, to finally hear the answers to questions he'd always wondered about.
Then he and Arthur would go down to the training yards, and their swords would sing that violent song, and with grunts and parries and thrusts Jon would rid himself of the ghosts from the previous night.
He saw the little Princess Naerys once a day, usually, and she was slowly warming to his presence, though each day felt as though he was starting anew.
Jon didn't mind. He understood.
And thankfully, there was Ghost.
Ghost became the bridge between man and girl, because her excitement when the white-furred beast would lope up and lick at her face was contagious. And with every re-introduction, the little shy lass seemed less meek, less inclined to stare at her feet instead of meeting Jon's eyes, and he found that gladdened him as well.
He would not have this child afraid of him.
The choice had been made, the die was cast, and it was told to him by Rhaegar himself that in another two moons or so, his betrothed would arrive, her armies in tow. This gave him several nights of ponderance, as when the Dragon King spoke of the forces that the Princess Daenerys Targaryen was escorting across the Narrow Sea, he made it sound as though they were HER armies, not his.
In the evenings, after dining, he would find himself in the Dragon King's council chamber, just off the throne room, which housed an exquisite carved model of all the kingdoms of Westeros, that the man called his 'Painted Table'. It had been carved, in intricate detail, by his own ancestor, one of the earlier generations of dragonlords who had settled on this island, named Aegon.
It was on just such a night, at the beginning of his second moon on Dragonstone, that he finally asked the King for answers.
Jon stood before the table, his eyes tracing each hill and valley, Davos standing nearby and doing the same. He took a sip of wine from the goblet in his hand, and looked towards the massive hearth, where Rhaegar Targaryen sat, staring into the flames. He did that, often, and Jon had taken to wondering if the man was seeking some sort of wisdom in the orange glow.
"These armies, that your sister brings," he began, waiting until the man met his eyes before continuing, "who commands them? "
Rhaegar's brows raised, and glanced at Arthur, who sat across from him, before answering. "Daenerys does, of course. My own armies, as you know, are encamped at the southern end of the island, readying for war."
Jon let his finger ring a circle around the representation of Dragonstone on the map. "And their number?"
"Some twenty-thousand," Rhaegar said smoothly, finally standing and crossing the room, dressed in his customary red and black leathers, the three-headed sigil of his House stitched upon his chest. "The Golden Company is well equipped for this campaign, I assure you."
Jon nodded, his eyes straying to the North. "We command thirty-thousand at current count. Father's last raven said he was preparing to dispatch them, awaiting our word." He examined the other Kingdoms in turn, noting the stone Lion figures currently situated in the Reach and the Stormlands, as well as the Westerlands. "Though I assume we will not make our push until your sister returns."
Rhaegar picked up a lion figure, turning it over in his hands. "Indeed. For it is reported that the Lannisters now command forces numbering greater than one hundred thousand, if my scouts are to be believed. Though," he sighed, "not all fight because they believe in the Lannister cause." He set the figure back down, exchanging it for a dragon, instead, and held it aloft for Jon's perusal. "But my sister brings some seventy-five thousand of her own, Dothraki horselords and Unsullied warriors who ought to even our odds up, a fair bit."
Jon let out a low whistle. "I should think so." It was said that to engage a Dothraki in an open field was to welcome certain death, their ruthless fighting style and mastery of the mounts something of a legend, even in Westeros. He had only the barest understanding of the Unsullied forces the man spoke of, save that they were students of the ancient Ghiscari fighting style, but there was something else he thought true that made him scowl. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but," he paused, trying to find the least offensive way to ask his question, "are the Unsullied not a slave army? I cannot say I approve of such." Rhaegar gave him a searching look, frowning himself, as he set the heavy stone dragon down on the table, and clasped his hands together before him.
"The Unsullied who fight for my sister fight as free men, Prince Jon. She set them free, you see, and killed the masters who wished to continue such traditions. She gave them a choice. They chose her." That eased his worry, in part, but it still did not explain just how one Princess had managed such a feat. Nor why the famed khalasars of the Dothraki would answer to her.
"How did she manage that?" When Rhaegar raised a brow and let out a small laugh, Jon stood straighter, staring the man down across the table. "Forgive me, but no matter how formidable, it beggars belief that one person, man or woman, would bring such forces under her command, without a means to do so."
Now, Rhaegar smiled widely. From the fireplace, his uncle let out a sharp bark of laughter. Jon looked over to peer at Davos, who just shrugged, intrigued, and came to stand beside Jon.
"Why, with her dragons, of course." The silver-haired man spoke so matter-of-factly that Jon was slightly embarrassed, though it was easy to understand why he'd forgotten about the rumors. He had seen no trace of such mythic beasts, in his time here, and had started to think perhaps they were merely that, just rumors, meant to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies.
Jon scratched at his bearded jaw, pondering the King's words. "And these dragons, do they travel with your sister then? For I have seen no sign of them at all."
Rhaegar clucked his tongue. "No," he said dryly, "I don't imagine you have." He paced over to the open stone windows, the room exposed to the elements there, and stared out into the night. "The greatest of the three, the one my sister calls Balerion, travels with her." He turned slightly, to gauge Jon's reaction. "But the other two are here. For there are three Targaryens left, Jon Stark, and three Targaryens to ride them." Another laugh huffed out when he saw Jon's mouth fall open, the implication clear: Rhaegar and Little Naerys had dragons of their own.
"Would you like to see them?"
Jon nodded adamantly, immediately, at the King's inquiry. Rhaegar turned slowly back to the night sky beyond the stone walls, his voice pensive when he spoke again. "Tomorrow, Prince Jon, I will show you how this war will be won. Tomorrow, I will show you the dragons, and you will know."
The torches on the wall guttered, and the fire crackled and snapped, the only accompaniment to the heavy silence that claimed the room, following Rhaegar's declaration.
"Aye," Jon finally said, low and rough. "I look forward to it."
Inside, there came a thrill, a shiver of excitement that worked down his spine.
Dragons. Real dragons.
He took his leave, Davos in tow, the men exchanging disbelieving looks as they made their way back to their quarters.
"What do you suppose we've gotten ourselves into, Jon?" There was a hint of fear in the smuggler's voice, as Jon pushed open the door to his quarters, and the Prince leaned on the wood. He mulled over the question, and gave Davos the most reassuring smile he could manage, hope swelling impossibly inside him.
"A way to win, Ser Davos." Jon tapped the wood decisively with his palm, nodding to himself. "A way to win."
That night, blessedly, he dreamt only of the tales of his boyhood, of dragons and those who rode them, bringing fire and death to their enemies, those dragonlords of old who ruled the skies.